


The Deep Breath Before The Plunge

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, Gen, I am worse to Maeglin than Tolkien was, Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12433638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: On the eve of what will come to be called the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Maeglin meets his mother's kin.Written as a treat for alikuu forInnumerable Stars 2017.





	The Deep Breath Before The Plunge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alikuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alikuu/gifts).



> "I just want Fingon and Maeglin to interact for some reason - everything else is up to you <3"
> 
> I'm afraid I took your request and ran a 5k with it. I hope it works for you!

> _Let's drink and be merry, all grief to refrain  
>  For we may or might never all meet here again_
> 
> _-Here's A Health To The Company_

Findekano sighed.

For all everyone spoke of nerves before a battle, no one had ever warned him of the sheer _tedium_ commanders had to deal with before a major battle. Making sure everyone had their proper supplies. Making sure his captains all knew where they were meant to be. And, of course, because this was the House of Finwë, keeping their own internal fights from breaking out afresh.

The small contingent from Nargothrond refused to have anything to do with Celegorm or Curufin on the grounds that they were not only kinslayers twice over, they could not be trusted. The handful who had stolen away from Doriath had joined that company, so at least that meant he had all his headaches in one place.

It shouldn’t be a problem, not when the battle plan kept the Fëanorions and his own army largely separate, but with the commanders all gathered to dine together this evening and confirm their battle plan, he’d had to be sure that no one would encounter the objects of their ire.

It was utterly ridiculous that he still had to worry about fallout from his idiot cousins. He would have happily let Tyelko and Curvo mind the eastern frontier, but they insisted on being part of the battle, and with Maitimo not about to tell them no, he was stuck with them.

If only they hadn’t sent Finderato to his death. If only the full strength of Nargothrond had come forth.

As long as he was making ridiculous wishes, he might as well wish for Turgon to show up. It was only slightly more likely.

“My king!”

The breathless messenger hadn’t waited to be granted permission to enter, and even the stern glare Findekano was giving him made no impression.

“My king, you must come at once!”

He sighed. Whatever minor snarl had occurred could surely be sorted out by someone else.

“Whatever it is, unless it’s Morgoth himself come forth, it can wait.”

Maitimo entered the tent, a look of amusement on his face.

“Not Morgoth, my king,” he said gravely. “But I think you will want to see him all the same.”

\---

Maeglin was nervous.

He really didn’t think this was a good idea.

Actually, it was the absolute opposite of a good idea. Did anyone see the Iathrim here? No. So this ‘grand alliance’ King Turukano spoke so eloquently of was less grand than they’d been told, and its total strength left much to be desired. He didn’t credit what they’d been told about another army further east.

He almost wished he’d obeyed his uncle’s command and remained in Ondolindë. He’d thought about it. But it would have been too much of a slight to Itarillë to be so overlooked. She was more than half the reason the city functioned as well as it did. She deserved the honor of being her father’s regent, and the credit for how smoothly all would run in his absence. There had been no logical reason for Turukano to assign him that responsibility instead of her.

Besides, one of them had to come to make sure the king returned from this battle, and Itarillë did not belong on a battlefield. He’d been happy enough to make a sword for her when she asked, but given how little practice she had with it, he wasn’t about to let her appoint herself her father’s standard-bearer.

He’d put up with the scolding from his great-aunt Irimë for his stubborn ‘insubordination’ in silence. Better to be the disobedient boy than have to bear Itarillë’s distress if her father got himself killed. And it wasn’t like Laurefindil would be much help, even if he was the king’s cousin – that golden hair of his was a bloody beacon. It practically _screamed_ ‘child of Aman! Target me!’ Put him next to Turukano on a battlefield and it was a recipe for a dead king.

He’d found the march harder than he’d expected, and he was frankly overwhelmed with the responsibility for the company of the Mole. He could run his House well enough in the city, and even in training exercises, but what did he know about marching orders and real battle? If it weren’t for the guidance of Calmatan, who had made the trek from Aman in Turukano’s train, he would be thoroughly at sea.

He had been relieved when they finally met up with the host of the Noldor, and still more relieved to be directed to the area where they were to make camp for the night. At least he knew he could manage that creditably.

He hadn’t expected to be instructed to join his uncle to dine with the other princes of the Noldor. A formal occasion full of lords he didn’t know was more than he had bargained for.

The High King’s tent was not ornate, merely larger than the others. The table looked as if it had been laid properly first before being expanded in some haste – Maeglin could see where maps and papers had been hastily cleared and a smaller table added to the main one.

He tried not to gawk at the men gathered at the other end of the tent, all of whom were apparently kin of his.

“That’s the boy?” growled a voice he didn’t recognize.

“I’m warning you, Tyelko!” snapped a tall red-head.

The lack of right hand meant the tall one could only be Maedhros, which made the silver-haired ‘Tyelko’ Celegorm – his mother’s favorite male cousin and great friend. And if that was Celegorm, the dark-haired prince in red on his other side must be Curufin, the smith!

Laurefindil was speaking to another dark-haired prince, but Maeglin could not see enough to guess who he might be.

Maeglin tried not to stare, for he was curious about these men he knew only from childhood stories.

“Lomion,” his uncle called. “There will be time enough to meet my cousins later. Come here!”

His uncle’s hand on his shoulder was unexpected, as was the pride in his voice as Turukano spoke.

“This, brother, is Irissë’s son Lomion.”

The man Turukano addressed as brother was shorter than the king of Ondolindë, but one could see straight away that they were sons of the same parents – the likeness in the face, the dark hair, the keen eyes. But where Turukano’s eyes were shadowed by grief and loss, his brother’s burned bright and hopeful.

“Lomion, this is your uncle Findekano.”

“Uncle!” Lomion said, trying for politeness, but hearing only too clearly that it came out as almost childish surprise. “I am honored-”

That was as far as he got, for Findekano was unlike his younger brother in this as well – he threw his arms around his nephew in a welcome so joyous they might have been on holiday instead of gathered for battle.

“Lomion, I am so glad to meet you at last!”

Findekano drew back only just far enough to give his newfound nephew a delighted look before drawing him close once again, this time with an arm around his shoulders.

“Turvo, I can’t say how happy I am to see the pair of you. We hadn’t heard that Lomion survived, only that Irissë was dead. I don’t care if you want to hide your people away, you might have at least let the rest of us know he was safe!”

Lomion was startled at the warmth not only in his uncle’s words, but radiating from his very fëa.

“I apologize, Finno,” Turukano said drily. “I assume, as I have come with a sizable army, you will overlook my not writing.”

“Hmph,” Findekano snorted, steering his nephew toward the table. “That depends on what the boy has to say. If he hasn’t been happy in your hidden kingdom…”

Maeglin found himself being guided to a seat next to the High King, with Maedhros on his other side. Curufin gave him a rather sour look from the other side of the table. Maeglin wasn’t sure if he’d broken some rule of etiquette not followed in Ondolindë, or if the greatest smith of the Noldor was unhappy with someone else.

He didn’t get a chance to ask, for his uncle Findekano monopolized his conversation, wanting to know everything – yes, _everything_ – there was to know about Maeglin Lomion. And, to Maeglin’s immense surprise, he seemed genuinely interested.

Findekano seemed rather put out that he had been kept in Ondolindë rather than sent to his grandfather in Hithlum after his mother’s death. Maeglin sensed that his uncles would have words later, when he was not present to hear, on that subject. (He would have agreed with his eldest uncle were it not for Itarillë.)

The only respite from Findekano’s questions were the few times – generally when the High King had a mouthful of food or wine – one of the other princes of the Noldor seized the opportunity to ask him something.

Maeglin found himself nearly blushing at being the center of so much attention. Most of it, he was relieved to discover, was friendly.

Maedhros, who reproved the High King of the Noldor several times for putting his poor nephew in danger of starvation despite the abundant table, might look forbidding, but he had a way of setting everyone at their ease that let Maeglin relax more than he normally did when eating at the high table.

Even Curufin had become pleasant – his frowns were directed at the king of Ondolindë, not its prince.

“What were you thinking, Turvo, bringing the boy?” he finally asked, pinning Turukano with a glare.

“He is of age,” Turgon replied with a frown and glare of his own.

It was clear that the pair of them had some long-standing quarrel, and Maeglin devoutly hoped not to be drawn into it.

“Barely,” Curufin shot back. “And as you’ve had him squirreled away in your hidden city, what in the name of all the stars does he know of fighting?”

“I asked to come, sir,” Maeglin interjected.

He wasn’t sure how he should address his mother’s cousin – among his father’s people, he would certainly have said uncle, but he still doesn’t always understand the Noldor, so better too formal than too familiar.

“I don’t doubt that you did, young one,” Curufin replied brusquely. “Nor do I doubt your bravery. Only your uncle’s – pardon me, your _younger_ uncle’s – sense in bringing his only nephew to battle.”

“Only Turvo’s sense? Not his armorer as well?” Celegorm suggested with a snort.

Up until now, his only contributions to the conversation had been an occasional joke whenever Maeglin was flustered, for which Maeglin was immensely grateful.

“Him too,” Curufin said dourly.

“I am my uncle’s armorer,” Maeglin said quietly. “If you doubt my work, sir, you are welcome to check it yourself.”

Curufin’s brows rose nearly to his hairline.

Findekano’s hand settled onto Maeglin’s wrist.

“Easy, lad. Your uncle Curufinwë meant no insult,” he said. “He is the finest smith among the Noldor, so it is no slight that he would find it more reassuring to see you wearing his work before any other. I would find it more worrying if he did not take an interest in your arms and armor.”

He patted Maeglin’s hand reassuringly.

“And if it would not upset _you_ , Lomion,” he continued, “I’d rest easier if he did have a look at it. He’s right, if my little brother saw fit to bring you, you should at least be as safe as possible under the circumstances.”

“It would be an honor, uncle,” Maeglin said quietly.

Curufin snorted.

“It’s not about honor, boy, it’s about making sure this time tomorrow evening I’m not looking at a corpse of you. Your mother was dear to all of us, and she’d never forgive us if we got you maimed or killed.”

“Yes, uncle,” Maeglin replied, understanding that was the only acceptable answer.

The conversation drifted to tactics, steered cleverly by Maglor and Glorfindel, which gave Maeglin a chance to finally make some progress on his dinner.

By dessert, Findekano had come back to learning more about his nephew.

Maeglin was happily telling him the story of Itarillë’s idea for an improved water system and how they had been working together to make it a reality when a muffled curse from across the table interrupted them.

He looked up to find Curufin and his uncle Turukano looking furiously at each other.

“Lomion, the hour is growing late, perhaps you should go with your Uncle Curvo to have him look over your armor,” Findekano said, a certain tightness in his voice betraying that it was not so much a suggestion as a command.

Maeglin rose at once, bowing to the company, and looking to Curufin, who was already standing.

Turukano leapt to his feet as well.

“ _Not you_ , Turvo,” Findekano said. His voice was somewhat less pleasant now.

Glorfindel was suddenly at Turukano’s side , his hand clamped tightly on the arm of the king of Ondolindë.

“Curvo, when you’re satisfied, bring the boy back here. I wish to speak with him again before we retire for the night.”

\---

Findekano waited until Curufinwë had Irissë’s son safely out of earshot – and Maitimo had shepherded his remaining brothers out as well – before he rounded on his own brother.

“For once in your life, Turvo, hold your tongue and listen!” he snapped. “Yes, I’m grateful you showed up, you and your army! But for the love of Eru, you know as well as I do that Curvo’s the best smith we have. Whatever else he may have done, he was always fond of Irissë, and nothing I’ve seen or heard from him makes me think he’ll do anything but keep her son safe!”

“Fin-”

“And as long as we’re on that subject, I rather agree with him – much as I’ve enjoyed meeting my nephew, what _were_ you thinking bringing a boy barely grown to a battle?”

“The boy refused to be left behind!” Turkuano yelled. “Do you think I _wanted_ to bring him?”

Findekano pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn’t you give him something to do that would let him feel there was no dishonor in staying behind?” he asked. “Name him your regent!”

“I tried,” Turukano said, sounding much as he had as a child when something hadn’t gone as expected. Except this time was considerably more serious than discovering that elves couldn’t fly no matter what he and Curvo had thought after studying birds or that Artanis would not listen to older cousins any more than Irissë listened to older brothers. “He refused and insisted that should be Itarillë’s title!”

Findekano sighed.

If the boy had grown up among the Sindar, Lomion had probably been baffled as to why his uncle had passed over his own daughter. The Sindar saw no difference between daughters and sons in such matters. But Turvo hadn’t considered that. And plainly he hadn’t thought of naming the pair of them co-regents, which probably would have worked. Nor had he tried pointing out to the boy that he would be the last defense of the city, responsible for protecting the cousin who was so clearly the center of his world.

Typical Turukano – everything was black and white, even though life in Beleriand has been nothing but shades of grey from the first.

“Turvo,” he said kindly, “While I anticipate victory on the morrow, you know as well as I do that there can be casualties in any battle, win or lose. It’s plain enough the boy was badly affected by his parents’ deaths. I would not have willingly put him on a battlefield unless the situation were truly desperate.”

“I can hardly send him away now,” Turukano grumbled. “I have his company between Laurefindil’s and Rauco’s – it should be the safest position for any of my people.”

Findekano frowned.

“I suppose that will do – unless… if Curvo actually pronounces his work acceptable, perhaps he can be set up here in the camp with some urgent last-minute smithing?”

“If you can contrive it, I would be much happier with that,” Turvo admitted, sinking into a chair. “I did _try_ to leave him in my city, Finno, truly.”

“I don’t see why you didn’t send him to Mithrim in the first place,” Findekano said reprovingly. “Do you know what it would have meant to Atto to have his grandson near him?”

_He might not have ridden to Thangorodrim_.

The thought hung unspoken, but then, it did not need to be. Turukano knew his father as well as his older brother did. That ride had been born not just of grief, but of fury – fury at himself as much as at Morgoth, for being unable to protect his nephews. For having failed them and his brother. A grown son he could leave behind, but an orphaned grandson barely of age? His daughter’s only child?

“I did what seemed right at the time,” Turukano said fretfully. “I see now it may not have been for the best, but I could not have known it then. Besides, he and Rillë are so fond of each other.”

Findekano sighed heavily. This wasn’t helping.

“No, don’t flail about in guilt, Turvo. You’re right about that, it’s all a bit late now. Only make sure you live through this battle, would you? With both parents dead, I don’t think Lomion can handle losing an uncle as well.”

\---

Maeglin bit his lip nervously as Curufin studied his armor intently, examining it for any flaws in design or workmanship.

Finally, the older elf straightened up.

“This is excellent work, young one. Even more so, considering your youth. Who trained you?”

“My father,” Maeglin said quietly.

Ada was normally a taboo subject. His uncle had banned the speaking of his name, and Itarillë, who normally would hear anything he wished to say, was deeply uncomfortable with that topic. But it seemed that the rest of the Noldor had heard no particulars about his parents’ deaths, at least not if the conversation over dinner was anything to judge by.

Curufin gave him a sharp look, but said nothing more.

“And your sword?” he said. It sounded rather as if the brusqueness in his voice was to cover up emotion he wasn’t sure Maeglin would welcome.

Maeglin handed over Anguirel.

There, at least, he had no reason for nervousness. It could slice iron, and he would wager it was easily a match for the blade that had been used to cut the jewel from Belegurth’s crown. That knife had been Telchar’s work, but his father had improved on several of Telchar’s techniques.

He found the impressed look on Curufin’s face satisfying.

“And you said you were Turvo’s armorer?”

Maeglin nodded.

“I am not solely responsible for arming Gondolin, the House of the Hammer is also known for their smith work, but I made my uncle’s sword, as well as the swords of several of the Lords who have come forth with us.”

Curufin looked at him expectantly, so Maeglin named the lords who had preferred his work.

“Ecthelion of the Fountain, Galdor of the Tree, Salgant of the Harp, and Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch.”

“What of the others?” Curufin asked.

Now his disapproval didn’t bother Maeglin, for it was clearly aimed at the ones who hadn’t recognized him to be superior.

“Glorfindel and Penlod have swords brought from Aman. Rog prefers a hammer, and Duilin is an archer,” Maeglin replied with a shrug.

He didn’t begrudge any of them, for it was an achievement to have his work held in such high regard that only swords from the Blessed Realm or, in Rog’s case, one’s own work was to be preferred.

Curufin looked as if he still disapproved, but he nodded.

“Uncle?” Maeglin asked tentatively.

Curufin looked at him expectantly.

“May I ask you a question?”

“You may ask me any question you like,” Curufin replied. “And as many of them as you please. If it happens to be one a I cannot answer, I will tell you.”

Maeglin swallowed. He felt disloyal even saying it, but…

“Out with it, nephew.”

“Would I be allowed to stay with Uncle Findekano after the battle? Do you think?”

The words came out in a jumbled rush, but this was his one chance to get away from Gondolin. Even if Findekano couldn’t order his younger brother to release Itarillë, as the elder he was his nephew’s proper guardian. And he was High King besides!

Curufin did not look entirely surprised by the question, and gesture for him to sit down on the camp bed.

“Are you unhappy in Turvo’s city, Lomion?” he inquired.

“Maeglin, please, Uncle,” Maeglin said quietly. “I prefer my father-name.”

Curufin simply nodded.

“Maeglin, then. What of Gondolin, Maeglin?”

“It is a very nice city,” Maeglin said around the thickness in his throat.

There’s never been anyone he could speak to honestly about it before.

“But...?” Curufin prompted softly.

“It was my fault,” he whispered.

Curufin looked puzzled.

“What was?” he asked blankly.

“Ammë’s death,” he mumbled, trying not to cry in front of an uncle he hasn’t known for more than three hours. “It was my fault.”

Curufin did not frown as Maeglin had thought he would. Nor did he back away. Instead, he reached out and took Maeglin’s hands.

“How could your mother’s death be your fault, young one?” he asked gently. “You were not even an adult when it happened.”

“I ran away,” Maeglin explained, and to his own mortification, found a sob escaping. But there was a battle tomorrow, and if he died, at least _someone_ would know the truth. “I ran away! I knew it was foolish, and Ada had forbidden us to go beyond Thingol’s lands, but I wanted to see the city Ammë told so many stories of, and I wanted to meet her kin. I didn’t think the curse was real!”

“Shh,” Curufin murmured, sitting next to Maeglin and pulling him close, rocking him like a child. “Unless you are the one who raised a weapon to her, you are not the one who killed her, my boy.”

“But she would not have gone back to Gondolin were it not for me! Ada would never have been there in the first place. They were only there because of me! Ammë’s death, and Ada’s – it was my fault…”

\---

Findekano had sent his brother on his way and was wondering if Maitimo would return before or after Lomion did when Curufinwë poked his head into his tent.

He did not look any calmer than when he’d left the table with Lomion – if anything, he looked to be barely in control of himself.

“Curvo? What under the stars…?”

“I left your nephew in the outer tent,” Curufin announced tightly, closing the flaps behind him. “I’m leaving him in your care, with a strong recommendation that should be where he _stays_.”

“What happened?” Findekano demanded.

He’s only ever seen Curvo this angry when someone threatened Tyelpë.

“The boy has believed himself responsible for his parents’ deaths for the last seventy years, that’s what’s happened,” Curufin hissed savagely. “It seems there’s a detail or two dear Turvo left out of his story about that- did you know he had Eöl _executed_?”

“Had him what?”

The word wasn’t familiar to Findekano, but judging by the sound it was one they’d gotten from Men.

“Killed. By order of the king,” Curvo explained angrily. “Which means your holier than thou brother is just as much a kinslayer as you and I. And the boy has had no choice but to live with Turukano this whole time! Think of me and my brothers what you like, we didn’t haul any Teleri young ones with us after we orphaned them!”

“Curvo, that’s ridiculous! How does the boy suppose his mother died?”

“He doesn’t know!” Curufin said savagely. “Turukano’s story is that the dark elf killed Irissë, but the boy is adamant that couldn’t be true. According to him, his parents were crazy about each other. He can as soon imagine himself growing wings as his father raising a hand to his mother.”

Findekano didn’t know what to think.

“But _Turukano_?” he repeated stupidly.

His most rule-following, well-behaved, always do the right thing brother? The one who had followed their father only with the utmost reluctance after wrestling with his conscience for several days before concluding that obedience to both his father and his king outweighed fealty to the Valar?

“Yes, I know it sounds ludicrous, and most of all from me,” Curufinwë said, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “But ask the boy yourself. And what’s more, think on his behavior at dinner.”

Findekano did, and realized with a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what his cousin meant – while Turvo appeared proud of the lad, and to hold him in the great affection one would expect for the only child of their dead sister, the boy had behaved with the utmost propriety – as if it was duty that kept him with his uncle, not love.

“He wants to stay with you, Finno,” Curufinwë said. “He doesn’t want to go back to Ondolindë. He didn’t say it, but I think he’s actually frightened of Turvo.”

“Sweet Nienna, if he thinks Turvo killed his father, why wouldn’t he be?” Findekano asked raggedly. “How could Lauro and Aunt Irimë not have noticed?”

His cousin shrugged.

“Laurefindil would be the last one in the world to suspect Turukano of impropriety. And our aunt never intended to be a permanent guest in Ondolindë, so who knows what she thinks of all this?”

Findekano leaned back in his chair, letting himself slump until his head rested against the back. Why must everything always be such a mess?

“He won’t go back with Turvo if he doesn’t want to,” he assured his cousin tiredly. “I give you my word. If he wants to come with me to Hithlum, he shall. Or if he’d prefer to join his father’s people, I can send him to Doriath with Mablung and Beleg. Or some of the folk from Nargothrond, should Mablung and Beleg…”

He trailed off. No one liked to say it, but there were no certainties once battle was joined in the morning.

“Good,” Curufinwë said shortly. “I left the boy in the outer tent –  he prefers his father-name, by the by. Maeglin. I don’t think he hears it very often. I’ll take my leave of him.”

“Where are you off to?” Findekano asked warily.

“Back to our camp,” Curufinwë growled. “Putting as much distance between myself and your insufferable brother as I can, because I rather think if we came face to face right now, I’d reunite him with dear Elenwë in short order.”

“Please try to avoid that,” Findekano sighed. “No matter what he’s done, we need him and the thousands who marched with him in the morning.”

“For your sake, Finno. And Maeglin’s. And Itarillë’s. But not for his.”

Curufinwë started to bow, but Findekano was having none of it. He pulled his cousin into a rough embrace.

“Thank you, Curvo. And take care of yourself tomorrow. Maeglin isn’t the only one who can’t stand to lose anyone else.”

“I doubt my son would even notice, Finno, let alone mourn. But it’s nice of you to say all the same.”

\---

Maeglin looked up nervously when his uncles came out of the inner tent. He hadn’t listened in on their conversation. He wasn’t sure his uncle Fingon would believe what Curufin was telling him.

“Lom- Maeglin. Come in, please.”

Fingon looked tireder than he had earlier, and slightly grim, but not angry or stern.

“Maeglin, my cousin has told me some disturbing things. I want you to know that while we do not have time to discuss it fully tonight, where you go after this battle is entirely _your_ decision. You are not bound to remain with Turukano. You are free to come with me back to my hall, or to travel with a guard to the lands of your father’s kin if you prefer. Or I could write a letter to Lord Cirdan at the Falas, and you might go there. You would find kin there, too – your cousin Gil-galad is in Cirdan’s care, and Finrod’s son Gildor is there as well, and Curufin’s Celebrimbor.”

Maeglin’s eyes widened. To go from being confined to Ondolindë to being offered complete freedom in less than an hour was more than he could have imagined.

“I… thank you, uncle,” he choked. “I think I would prefer to come with you, but if you do not think that is wise, I will join my cousins in the Falas.”

He could write to his father’s kin from either place, and they could visit. Better yet, he could send word with Mablung. He would surely carry a message to Doriath if asked.

“What about Itarillë?” he asked nervously.

He knew without a doubt that she would not begrudge him seizing his freedom, but he also knew she would miss him, just as he would miss her. And there would be no way to write to her.

“I will be speaking to my brother about her when I speak to him about you,” Findekano assured him. “It seems unfair that she should not also have the chance to visit with her kin who have long missed her.”

Maeglin felt like he had swallowed a summer day whole, so great was the joy.

“And now, my boy, you should get some rest. We make an early start in the morning, and I want your wits as sharp as your glance, not befuddled from exhaustion.”

“Yes, uncle!”

He impulsively hugged his uncle. New-met or not, he felt far more like kin than Turukano ever had.

“Mind you keep yourself safe tomorrow, young one,” Fingon whispered to him. “I do not think I could bear finding a nephew only to lose him at once.”

“I will, uncle. I promise!”


End file.
